I thumb the thick and browning pages of The Book. It's getting older now; at roughly seventy years it is something you might expect of a book.

The Book isn't big or small. It is a comfortable size that sits quite comfortably with its spine between your thighs and your hands softly caressing the edges of the hard back covering. It has no particular direction, or pathway that it must follow, no plot line. It exists only to exist, and for no other reason.

I smile down at the book, and a tear makes a soft plick as it lands on page seventy-four of The Book. I realise I am crying but I do not notice.

I lift my heels off the ground one at a time and only by half a centimetre. The therapist glances at my boots and makes note of the movement in his book. His book is new and pale and bland. It has no character, with blue lines ruled neatly across the pages. I can see his handwriting in careless scrawlings and I see that he considers the heel movement to be a bad thing. I dismiss the action as I dismissed my crying.

He shifts in his seat and I smile at The Book again, whereupon I do notice that I am crying. The single tear has smudged the ink. I wipe it away as he begins to speak.

Abby, would you like to tell me why you're here today?

Abby is not my name. But I understand why people choose to call me by this rather than my full name. I think it concerns them.

Someone suggested it and I was in no position to oppose them. So I came.

This has him thinking. He writes something down and his eyebrows press together. He is wearing a dark grey suit with mustard socks and black leather shoes. His grey hair is perfectly in place. He puts down his pen and folds his hands on top of his now closed book. And why did they ask you to see me?

I bite the inside of my lip. Because I believe in something that is not real. They did not ask me, Doctor Jennings; they told me to make an appointment. They said that if I did not take immediate action that I would have to leave, and I do not want that.

He nods as though he understands, even though he doesn't. He nods towards The Book. I see you've brought a book with you.

I smile and another tear falls on page seventy-four. Yes. It is The Book. It is what my mother left to me. I was told to bring it.

Why did they ask you to bring it?

I was told to bring it, Doctor Jennings. Nobody has asked me anything apart from you.

He takes a while to process this. Why were you told?

My mother believed as well. The Book contains everything she ever knew, as well as her mother. All of their knowledge, I close The Book and pat the cover, is in here.

What do they believe?

They believed what I believe now; that there are things out there that are not human. That there is an afterlife, and that there are dark things in the world.

What dark things?

I have to plan my words carefully. A wrong move can be harmful. My mother and her mother and I believe in Heaven and Hell, and that there are angels and a God and a Devil. We believe that there are demons that roam the earth. We believe that angels pass among us, masquerading as humans. We believe in what you laugh away every Sunday morning as you see people on their way to church.

He is shaking his head and I can see the stitching of his toupee. I understand now why his hair is so perfectly in place. He removes his glasses. Abby, you must understand that you don't have to believe everything your mom ever told you. You're allowed to have your own thoughts.

But I have seen it for myself. I have seen the demons and the angels and the things of which they are capable. My mother and my grandmother merely believed, Doctor Jennings. I, however, know.

He looks very concerned. He reopens his book and takes out a piece of paper, handing it to me with his pen. I would like you to fill this out, Abby.

I take the paper and pen from him and use the table to write on. It is a referral form. I look up at him. What is this for?

He stands and walks behind his desk. I'm sending you to a place where you can get better. A place where you will be safe, and we can help you.

I do not need help. I am perfectly fine.

The sheets on his desk rustle as he starts preparing for his next appointment. You're sick Abby. Your mother made you think that saying these things is okay, but you're obviously very sick.

I do not feel at all sick, I –

Your mind is sick, not your body.

I fill out the form and hand it to him before leaving the office with The Book grasped firmly in my hand.